


Fields of the Fatherless

by boughofawillowtree



Series: St. Dymphna's [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1700s, Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Catholicism, Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Disguise, Female-Presenting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Female-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), Gen, Genderbending, Genderfluid, Ireland, M/M, Magdalene laundries, Nuns, shifting pronouns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:42:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21869224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boughofawillowtree/pseuds/boughofawillowtree
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley are both living disguised as nuns in Ireland in the mid-1700s. As usual, their respective jobs lead them across one another's paths - and, this time, into a tiny oasis of peace and joy despite the bleak surroundings.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: St. Dymphna's [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1630222
Comments: 6
Kudos: 73
Collections: Clerical Omens, Oh Come All Ye Sinful! A Depraved Holiday Exchange 2019





	Fields of the Fatherless

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pamspamela](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pamspamela/gifts).



Sister Zylphia had a round, chubby face framed by an unruly mop of golden-blonde curls, always visible no matter how hard she tried to keep them tidily hidden under her wimple. As a result of this look, folks often referred to her as “cherubic.” This bothered her. Everyone assumed her discomfort with the term was just the vanity of girlhood, which, as anyone knew, couldn’t be entirely stamped out by a nun’s habit.

They were wrong. The word didn’t bother Sister Zylphia out of any personal offense. Rather, it made her nervous that she was on the verge of being caught out. 

For Sister Zylphia was not a girl. Nor was she, exactly, a nun. She was not even a human. And, since she had little practice at pretending to be any of the three, she worried often about maintaining the disguise.

Fortunately, by 1739, no one had called Sister Zylphia “cherubic” in a long while, though she figured that was due less to her success and more to do with the gloom that had settled over the entire country. In the grey and impoverished island of Ireland, no one was in much of a mood to flirt with a traveling Sister who showed up in their village with a too-posh accent and a battered suitcase full of medicines that often came too late.

Sister Zylphia certainly couldn’t blame them. Every Catholic peasant lived heavy under the weight of British rule, the crops were starting to fail, and it seemed that happiness was as elusive as a sunny day or a full belly. And the hungry, chilly misery was well known to Sister Zylphia, who had been sent to walk between the towns, spreading what comfort she could, and reporting back to the Church the suffering of her people. 

Her current assignment was no better than all the ones that preceded it. Rumors had reached the bishops of a home for wayward women and their children, operating under odd circumstances. Such institutions were meant to guard the virtue of the community and stanch the spread of sin. This one, it seemed, was doing something different, though the clergy who had sent Sister Zylphia couldn’t say exactly what or how. 

So here she was, two days from her last warm meal, soaked through to the bone, dragging her sodden skirts and weary feet up to the door of St. Dymphna’s Mother & Child Home And Laundry and ringing the metal bell with far less patience than would be expected of a sweet avowed nun such as herself.

A short woman, dressed in a rather disheveled looking habit, answered the door. Her grey eyes narrowed as she looked Sister Zylphia up and down. When she spoke, her tone was suspicious. “What’s your business here?”

“I, er,” Sister Zylphia said, taken aback by the nun’s lack of warmth. Here she was, standing out in the wet Irish evening, being questioned like an unwelcome stray, and not invited in. Everywhere she went, the members of the Church were welcoming, but it seemed somehow that here, her visage as a representative of the Bishop was doing her no favors. Which made no sense, this being a convent. “I am a traveling Sister, here seeking shelter and rest after my journey. I come under the orders of the Bishops of -”

“Wait here,” the nun said, then had the absolute gall to  _ shut the door _ !

Sister Zylphia stood outside in the wet and cold and stared at the closed door. Never once had she been left outside like this. The Bishops had been right. Something was clearly afoot here. She worried about what it might be. What could they be hiding? Why did the appearance of a fellow Sister elicit such coldness - literally?

After a while, the same grey-eyed sister, looking a bit more put together, reappeared. “Come with me,” she said, and Sister Zylphia stepped inside. 

“My name is Sister Hannah,” she said, padding down the stone floors and motioning for Zylphia to follow her. “I am sorry for keeping you waiting. Our Abbess was not expecting company. We do strive for hospitality, but, as all sinners do, fall short despite ourselves. I pray the Lord’s forgiveness as well as yours, miss.”

Zylphia noted the strangely grovelling tone in Sister Hannah’s voice, which hadn’t been present when she first answered the door. She also noticed the hush that permeated the dim hallways. It unnerved her. She could sense that there were plenty of people within the building, but there were no voices, no audible signs of life. Wasn’t this a mother and child home? Where were all the mothers and children? A sinister chill ran through her, and not because of her damp clothes. There was something evil here.

There was some talk in the towns of terrible things that happened in these places, but the Church always dismissed them as petty complaints from unrepentant souls who had no gratitude for the efforts made to elevate them from their station. For her part, Zylphia had seen enough of human nature in her time to believe that some of the laundries and other homes harbored horrors behind their walls. She had hoped not to have to face such cruelty in the guise of a simple young nun, but it seemed that was her lot.

Sister Hannah led her to a small room, furnished simply in the fashion of a nun’s cell. Zylphia had slept in hundreds, if not thousands, of nearly identical rooms. “Thank you, Sister. I will be most comfortable here.” Zylphia smiled warmly at the girl, for she was no more than a girl, slight and skittish like a spring deer.

Sister Hannah only bowed her head and made to leave. “Wait, dear,” Zylphia said, and she stopped in the doorway. 

“What else may I do for you, Sister?”

“If you would be so kind as to let your Abbess know that I would very much like to meet with her.”

Sister Hannah looked worried. “Our Abbess Antonia is quite busy, I’m afraid. Running the home is a mighty task, one she undertakes with all her might for the sake of Our Lord, and she does not often take audiences.”

Sister Zylphia felt her brows knit together. She had been sent by the Bishops, after all, to investigate. But perhaps it would be better to drop this issue and instead get to know the other nuns and residents of the convent. 

“Of course, I understand. Thank you, Sister Hannah. Will I see you at breakfast tomorrow morning?”

“Oh - yes. We take our breakfast at five am, after morning prayers.”

With that, she left. Zylphia lay back on the narrow cot and stared at the painting of Saint Mary on the wall, though it bore exactly zero resemblance to the woman she had known so many years ago. Which was fitting, since the state of the Church these days also had few, if any, similarities to the community Mary’s son had founded.

Naturally, the only books in the room were religious texts, but it was better than nothing. Sister Zylphia, having no need of sleep, refreshed herself on various prayers and liturgies until the bells rang out, just before sunrise, for morning prayers.

The first thing Sister Zylphia noticed as she entered the chapel was that all eyes followed her. Sisters clad in their habits held the hands of quiet children, and a handful of women dressed in plain dresses stood clustered at the back. Whispers of  _ arrived last night _ and  _ sent by the Bishops _ followed her as she took her place, kneeling in an empty pew near the front. It seemed that her presence had everyone nervous, which was very strange for a convent that should have been used to guests and visitors, given its role and location.

The second thing she noticed was how bleary-eyed everyone looked. Some of the smaller children were actually sleeping, and the rest were rubbing their eyes. Even the adults looked a bit dazed, when they weren’t staring at her with mistrust. 

What was going on? Were they sick? Was the Abbess overworking them? Those living by the rhythms of a convent quickly adjusted, and if the appropriate schedule was being followed, no one should appear this miserable to be attending morning prayers.

Zylphia was interrupted in her pondering by a series of realizations: one, that she was again sensing the infernal presence she had been aware of the night before. Two, that the room was falling hushed as the Abbess entered and took her place at the front of the chapel. And three, that there was something important Sister Zylphia was failing to realize. She had that tickling sense of familiarity combined with unresolved mystery that arose when, for instance, she could not remember a word she had intended to use.

But her puzzled thoughts were interrupted when the Abbess began speaking.

“Blessed is our Lord Jesus Christ...”

Recognizing the voice, Sister Zylphia’s head snapped up to stare at the Abbess. She appeared to be a tall, slim woman with severe features. Dark tinted spectacles, worn low on her sharp nose, concealed her eyes. Sister Zylphia was the only person in the room, she suspected, who knew why. 

For Abbess Antonia was neither a woman nor an Abbess; just as Sister Zylphia was neither a girl nor a nun.

While everyone else in the room repeated her words with their heads bowed, Abbess Antonia dipped her chin to look over her glasses at Sister Zylphia.

“...who was, and is, and reigns forever.” Abbess Antonia smiled a wicked little smile and snapped her book shut with a noise that startled the odd congregation out of their drooping postures. 

“Amen. And that concludes our  _ lauds _ for this morning. May the grace of our good King keep your beds warm until your imminent return. And please disregard any previous announcements. Breakfast will be served at the civilized hour of half past nine, as usual. Dismissed.”

Relieved, happy chatter filled the room. Sleepy children were hoisted from pews onto shoulders and hips as the nuns and mothers made their way to the door.

What on  _ earth _ was happening?

Abbess Antonia headed for the exit herself, then turned to Sister Zylphia, almost as an afterthought. “Oh, and to our welcomed guest - Sister Zylphia, is it? - once I’ve gotten the rest of my sleep, I would like a word with you. Say, eleven sharp in my chambers?”

All Sister Zylphia could do was nod and follow the crowd, returning to her cell to while away a few more baffling hours.

Breakfast was far more raucous than any convent meal she’d ever attended. Giggling toddlers ran from seat to seat, grabbing for treats with honey-sticky hands. Bacon, and cream, and even fresh fruit, were in abundance. Sisters in tousled veils told jokes through mouthfuls of buttered bread. One young mother braided a girl’s hair as she played patty-cakes with a cross-legged nun. A little boy stood on a chair and loudly demonstrated his knowledge of farm animal noises, to rousing applause.

And there, in the middle of it all, was Abbess Antonia, an infant in the crook of one arm, passing a pitcher of cream down the table with her other hand, shouting a teasing joke at one of the nuns. 

_ So that’s what he’s up to, here - miracling indulgent food and canceling morning prayers? But why? _

Eleven o’clock couldn’t come soon enough. Sister Zylphia tried to make herself useful throughout the morning as the women cleaned the kitchen and set about morning chores, but there seemed to be secret rhythms of this place that no one was too keen to let her in on. For that matter, everyone was giving Zylphia a wide berth, despite her attempts to be friendly.

Finally, she made her way to the Abbess’s rooms. Antonia met her at the door, holding a girl who looked to be about three years old on her hip. Sister Zylphia knew that Antonia in fact had no hips to speak of, and by all reason the child should have slid right out of the Abbess’s loose embrace and onto the floor. But Abbess Antonia cared far more for this child than for the laws of physics, and the girl was seated safely and comfortably.

“Ah, Sister  _ Zylphia _ ? That’s a clever one. Come on in.” 

The Abbess’s room was in an absolute state. Empty baby bottles were lined up on the desk, as if waiting to be collected. Piles of blankets set up as small sleeping pallets lined the room. Brightly colored blankets, dolls, and toys covered all other surfaces. A tiny infant slept in a cradle that sat where a chair ought to be. 

Abbess Antonia shut the door and, with an unnecessary flourish, pulled off her head covering and shook out her auburn curls. She was not wearing her glasses, and so the face that met Zylphia’s was as familiar as her own. 

“Crowley.”

The demon grinned. “Guilty as charged. Oh, do you look ridiculous, angel.”

At the use of that word, Aziraphale cast a startled glance toward the child Crowley was holding. 

“Oh, they’re kids - they don’t know anything’s strange. That young, nothing is normal, so everything is.” He set the girl down on the floor with an encouraging nod toward one of the toys. “So you can take that silly thing off, if you want.”

Aziraphale removed his veil and folded it neatly, then realized there was no safe place to put it down in the chaotic office. He stuffed it in his pocket. 

“What are you doing here?”

Crowley glanced over to check on the sleeping infant, then leaned on his desk, looking very satisfied with himself. “Oh, the usual. Undermining the Church, in all its Holy Horrors. Making mischief. Stamping out repentance wherever I find it.” 

“But - how? What is going on?”

“Ah, that’s the brilliant part, angel.” Crowley winked and gestured toward the girl playing happily with a wooden figure of a horse. “In all my evil ways, I’ve been letting these wayward women and bastard children think that, perhaps, they may not actually be worthless, shameful, wretched creatures - that they might be worthy, even, of love and joy! Imagine that, what a heresy.”

There was a sharp-edged anger in Crowley’s voice that rose as he spoke, until the girl looked up from her playing with worried eyes. He soothed her with a gentle smile before continuing in a softer tone.

“I’m just running a laundry, that’s all.”

***

It was clear that the Abbess had put the word out throughout the convent that Sister Zylphia was to be trusted, and she no longer walked the halls a pariah, but found herself well-enveloped by the strange little community that resided behind St. Dymphna’s walls. 

She could certainly see why word of this place had started to spread - it would be impossible to find any better place for a young woman or lost child to find themselves, and certainly those who had been blessed by St. Dymphna’s would advise other souls in similar predicaments to make their way here.

But the Bishops had ears, too, and what was good news for women with nowhere to turn wasn’t necessarily what the Church leadership wanted to hear. Small wonder they were concerned.

Sister Zylphia was standing in the doorway of the laundry, watching the women laugh and chatter as they pressed and stacked linens. Of course she had offered to help, but they had insisted that as a guest, she should refrain from the work. So here she was, watching, and wondering what she could possibly report back to the Bishops. It seemed a shame to mark anything happening here as a problem, though for some curious reason the Church seemed to believe that a cheerful sorority and well-loved children was not within the bounds of their intentions for these institutions.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the racing patter of tiny feet and then the sudden appearance of a little boy, who darted under her long skirts to hide.

“Wha-” Sister Zylphia started, stepping back.

“Sshh!” The little boy peeked out from under her hem, one finger to his lips, eyes imploring. 

Just then, more little feet turned the corner - three more children, out of breath and skittering to a halt once they saw her.

“Where is he? Declan?” A chorus of voices started shouting for Declan, and Sister Zylphia could hear the boy giggling from beneath her habit.

“He’s under there! He’s hiding with the new Sister!” The small crowd of children raced toward Zylphia and yanked up her skirt just high enough to reveal little Declan, crouched and grinning. One ran into her hard enough to set her off balance, and she had to brace herself against the stone wall to keep from falling over in the onslaught of playfulness.

Declan crawled out from his hiding place and they all started shouting again, arguing over who would hide next. They were talking to her, too, about helping Declan be sneaky and whether she wanted to play too. Zylphia felt at least one little hand in her pocket, and someone was asking about candy. 

“I, er, I don’t -”

Two of the washerwomen had noticed the commotion and come over, wiping their hands on their aprons. “I’m sorry,” one of them was telling Zylphia, patting her skirts flat where the children had rumpled them.

“Hey, hey, wee ones,” the other one was shouting, and the children hushed and turned their attention to her. “Sister Zylphia is a guest here, and she don’t know the games we play. It’s not nice to pull someone into your game without asking, right?”

“But she’s not minding it, is she?” One of the little girls looked up at Sister Zylphia with a precious smile. “We like her!”

“That’s very nice,” the woman said, “but let’s leave her out of the hiding games, alright?”

“Yes ma’am,” the children said, in chorus. She gave each one a kiss on the forehead before sending them off to continue their play elsewhere.

“Again, sorry ‘bout that,” she said, straightening and looking at Sister Zylphia. 

“Not to worry,” said the angel in disguise, still not entirely clear on what had just happened. 

Children had never really been a strength of Aziraphale’s, and since Crowley had such a way with them, the two had always let the demon take on any child-related miracles. Once they turned teenaged - brooding, thoughtful, engrossed in the vast narratives of their own thoughts - Aziraphale did just fine. But the sticky, rowdy years? Crowley could have all that and keep it. 

_ Well, he certainly is doing that… _

Aziraphale wondered how long this could last, “Abbess Antonia” presiding over St. Dymphna’s. With the Bishop’s eyes turned this way, and the country on the edge of ruin, how many more orphans would find their home on the demon’s hip? How many more young women would giggle and tease over the washing here? 

Plenty more, if Aziraphale had anything to say about it. 

***

At lunch, Sister Zylphia made it a point to sit near the children who had tried to include her in their play earlier. It seemed that the younger inhabitants of St. Dymphna’s were far more willing to invite her into their insular world, and accepting that invitation might help to put the adults more at ease.

She learned that the older girl, the one who had spoken up with firm insistence that she liked Sister Zylphia, was named Fiadh and was an orphan living at the home. 

The girl was thrilled to have a new audience who had not already tired of her favorite stories. She chattered away at Sister Zylphia, telling endless anecdotes that Zylphia could only half-follow. One of them was about seeing a great snake in the hallways of the home. Fiadh told Zylphia in a conspiratorial whisper that even though everyone said there were no snakes in Ireland, she’d seen one, a big black one, slithering down toward Abbess Antonia’s room, but no one believed her.

The other children at the table were happy to chime in and play their roles, insisting that no such snake existed. Fiadh was thrilled to the point of bouncing in her seat when Zylphia conceded that, perhaps there were strange things among the walls of St. Dymphna’s, and she had certainly heard of snakes being where they ought not to be. 

Fiadh continued her storytelling, emboldened by Zylphia’s belief in her snake story. She told Sister Zylphia that she was eight, they think, and that she’d been at St. Dymphna’s since she was a toddler. “Abbess Antonia gave me my name, and my birthday,” she said proudly. “October 21. And she says every year on my birthday she’ll give me a present, even after I don’t live here anymore!”

“Is that so,” Zylphia said, watching as the food on Fiadh’s plate grew cold.

“Uh huh. Even when I’m in the Parliament and live in a great big house, she’ll still send me a present.”

“Nuh uh,” said a freckle-faced boy through a mouthful of heavily buttered bread. “You’re not gonna be in Parliament, Fee.”

“Am too,” she said sourly, “and don’t call me that.”

“But you’re a girl, and -”

“And so?” Fiadh snapped. Zylphia could tell that Fiadh was getting angry, but she had no idea how to calm the storm that was rising between the children. She glanced nervously at the boy, who had a teasing grin on his face. “Abbess Antonia says that girls can do whatever they want.”

“Yeah, well,” the boy began, but was interrupted by a tall figure appearing behind him, one hand on his shoulder. It was Antonia.

“She’s right, you know,” the Abbess said in a syrupy tone. “Girls can do whatever they like. But no sense fussing on the future when there’s perfectly good stew and bread before us right now. Go on, Fiadh lovey, you’ve hardly touched your lunch.”

Fiadh seemed somewhat startled to see her bowl of stew still nearly as full as it had been when lunch began, and started eating. Abbess Antonia slid into a seat on the bench next to Fiadh, facing Zylphia, and her presence sent a calm through the previously shouting children - not one borne of fear, but of genuine respect. 

“Colin, what would you like to be when you grow up?” Antonia asked, gently continuing the conversation.

“Ma says my daddy was a fisherman,” Colin said proudly. “I’m gonna be a fisherman too.”

“You’ll need your strength, then,” the Abbess said, “and plenty of patience, too.”

Colin nodded solemnly, taking in Antonia’s advice as he munched on his bread. 

Sister Zylphia turned to another girl, a few years younger than Fiadh, with tight blond curls and round green eyes. Her name was Mary Catherine and she hadn’t said anything herself, but was hanging on Fiadh’s every word. 

“And you, dearie?” Zylphia asked. 

The girl’s eyes lit up at the question. “I wanna be a nun, like Miss Antonia, and like you, Sister!”

Crowley gave Aziraphale a little grimace and a pleading look. Aziraphale understood. This darling girl was in for quite a shock if she thought life as a nun was well-reflected in this place.    
  
“That’s lovely,” Zylphia said, “but you must remember to keep your options open. The Lord is quite mysterious in His ways, and only calls some of us. Besides, you may find a young lad who catches your eye.” With that, Zylphia winked.

“Ew!” Mary Catherine cried, sticking out her tongue. “Boys are nasty. I’m gonna be a nun!”

Zylphia was trying to come up with an answer when Fiadh interrupted. “Sister Zylphia?” she asked. “Abbess Antonia says God can be a lady, but you said  _ His _ ways are mysterious. And in the prayer books, it says God is our Father. How come?”

“Er,” Zylphia started. Now it was her turn to look at the Abbess with ‘s _ tep in and help me out here _ ,  _ please _ ’ in her eyes.

“God is very big, Fiadh,” Antonia said, waving her hand in the air. “Big enough to be anything and everything - or, even, nothing at all.”

“That don’t make sense,” Colin said. “God’s a boy, just like Jesus.”

“Perhaps,” the Abbess said mysteriously. “But I think such a question is far too messy to be handled over lunch. Who wants some cake for dessert?” She rose from the table amid a chorus of excited voices, all having forgotten the thorny theological inquiry in favor of demanding to know what flavor today’s cake was.

***

That evening found the two immortal beings once again in the Abbess’s study. Crowley had carried a sleeping toddler from a pallet on her floor and nestled her in bed with one of the nuns, ensuring that the two could talk through the night without waking the little orphan. An infant, still young enough that he could be relied upon to sleep through even the most raucous of adult conversations, was curled in Crowley’s arms, lips gently pursed, tiny hands grabbing fistfuls of his habit.

“You want some wine?” Crowley snapped his fingers and unlocked a wooden cabinet next to his desk, revealing a dozen bottles. “It’s all consecrated,” he said, disgusted.

Aziraphale helped himself to a bottle, miracling a glass out of thin air, and leaned back in his chair.

“I worry about these children,” Aziraphale said, after some companionable silence.

“Doesn’t everyone,” Crowley muttered darkly.

“I mean,” Aziraphale continued, “the little one who wants to be a nun - and you telling Fiadh that God is a woman. I mean, what is there for them after this?”

“You’d have me lie? To children? Not very  _ angelic _ , hm?” Crowley bounced the baby, then tapped his little button nose, smiling. “What should I name this one, do you think?”

“He doesn’t have a name?”

Crowley shook his head. “Foundling. No name. A boy, less than three months old.”

“Poor dear,” Aziraphale said. “But luckier than most, ending up here.”

Crowley was gazing down at the sleeping infant, a softness in his eyes that Aziraphale rarely saw. “One hopes,” he murmured in reply.

“I do wonder,” Aziraphale said, returning to his previous point. “Are they prepared to survive in the world beyond these walls?”

Crowley’s head snapped up, glaring at Aziraphale. “Who is, these days? Nothing but frigid winters and hungry summers, out there.”

“Well, yes, but -”

“You know, if I had a vote, that little Fiadh would be my first choice for Parliament. I don’t care if she is eight years old. Sure she’d do a better job than half the rotters there now.”

“I can’t argue there,” Aziraphale said, raising his wine glass, “but that you’re being awfully generous to the other half.”

Crowley laughed. Then he looked down again at the little boy. "Glendon," he said, his voice soft.

"Glendon," Aziraphale repeated. It was a strong name. He ran through his knowledge of the Irish language. "It means...from the fortress in the glen?"

Crowley nodded and rocked the child. "Literally, yes. Glendon: one with a fortress for a home. The boy from the safe place." 

“But Crowley, I do have to ask-” Aziraphale could tell that Crowley did not appreciate his return to the subject “-what is your game, here?”

“Must there be a game?” The nameless infant stirred, and Crowley shifted him to his shoulder. “Is it not enough for a demon to hide out in a laundry for a century or two, raising children up to question the ways of the Church, and sending them out into the world with far more wit and vigor than  _ bastards _ and  _ orphans _ have any right to?”

“I suppose,” Azirpahale said, though it still didn’t make sense.

“World’s changing, angel,” Crowley said. “It always has, don’t we know it. But it’s going faster and faster, and it’s only getting stranger. Seems to me this country needs a handful of folks who grew up strong and healthy, who know in their bones what it is to be safe, and who only scare when the threat warrants.” 

Aziraphale had no reply, only sipped his wine as he watched Crowley speak.

“And if this little project of mine just so happens to undermine an institution of your blasted Church, well then, chalk up the victory to demonkind and Irish babes alike.”

“They really do mean well,” Aziraphale said. 

Crowley scoffed. “You know what they say about the roads back home, don’t you? Sure I step over a thousand priestly intentions just leaving my front door.”

“Fair.” Aziraphale shrugged. “They sent me to investigate, you know.”

“Figured as much.” Crowley stared into Aziraphale’s eyes. “What are you going to tell them?”

“I was thinking,” Aziraphale said, nervous. “I might write back and say that there are some  _ irregularities _ in the way this home is being run, but that I’m confident if I were assigned here for a year or two, I could work alongside the Abbess to restore things to order.”

Crowley seemed surprised, and his raised eyebrows belied another emotion, a softer, more hopeful one, beneath. “You’d stay?”

Aziraphale’s eyes fell on the child sleeping in Crowley’s arms, the way his tiny chest rose and fell with a rhythm breathed into humans from the very first days.

“If you’d have me.”

***

Aziraphale was able to secure the Bishop’s permission - it was, after all, rare for a direct request from Sister Zylphia to be denied - and she settled quickly in at St. Dymphna’s. She taught the Sisters there to play scopa, a card game she’d learned on her travels through Italy, and soon nearly every evening found her and a handful of nuns and mothers up late, playing by candlelight, teasing and betting diaper changes against late-night feedings. She and Sister Hannah discovered a shared love of romance novels, and would swap books often, taking long walks in the gardens to discuss their favorite characters. 

Each day, Crowley glided through the halls, calming squabbles, lifting children onto bony shoulders, solving the many minor problems that plagued such a place. Although it was clear that the demon greatly preferred spending time with the children, Aziraphale had to admit that he performed all the other duties of the Abbess with awe-inspiring ease.

When an angry, drunken man arrived at St. Dymphna’s, demanding to see a certain child or woman to whom he believed he had some sort of rights, the Abbess shepherded everyone inside, then spoke with the man out by the gates. She never lost her temper, and though the men rained all manner of disrespect down on her, she remained cool and firm. They all left eventually, and none of them ever came back. 

Young women wishing to start new lives in America found themselves well-supported by the odd family led by their demonic matriarch. The Abbess somehow always had a way to procure the necessary papers, and always sent them off with sturdy luggage and full pockets. Children outgrowing the home found apprenticeships or took up as nannies in lovely English homes, and often wrote back telling of their new lives. It seemed Abbess Antonia had a keen instinct for danger, and never sent her charges to work with anyone but the kindest and most trustworthy employers.

Many did stay, making a fine living at the laundry, and seeing no reason to leave behind the support and community of St. Dymphna’s. Days there were always pleasant but never boring - the constant presence of children ensured as much. One of Zylphia’s best memories was of the spring day when a group of unattended boys used a carefully placed trail of bread crusts to entice a stoat inside, where it proceeded to wreak thrilling havoc until a cadre of nuns and mothers armed with brooms was able to chase it back outside. 

But, like all things Aziraphale and Crowley had experienced during their time on earth - well, all but one - St. Dymphna’s was not to last. A few years into the famine that crushed Ireland during the 1740s, the Church determined that continuing to fund the outpost was not financially feasible, and St. Dymphna’s was closed down. Crowley and Aziraphale shared one final drink after helping all the women and children pack up. They stood on the grey stone pathway, where Aziraphale had arrived nearly five years earlier, soaking wet and unsure what he’d find behind the walls. 

“Never thought I’d be raising babies with a bunch of nuns and an angel,” Crowley said, toasting with his glass of whisky.

“Did a fine job of it, too,” Aziraphale finished, then downed his own whisky.

Something told him that this wasn’t over. Whatever joy he found here, while coddling screaming babies, scraping jam off toast to appease a squalling toddler, teaching sums and letters to squirmy children, he’d found because he’d done it all by Crowley’s side. He had loved their easy partnership: brushing past each other in the kitchen, reading each other’s thoughts as they separated two arguing women and gave each one the exact counsel required to solve the dispute, crashing through the attic at three in the morning to find the source of a stubborn drip.

He hoped - no, he knew, with a stubbornness of faith that told him anything this full of goodness would not be squashed - that someday, in another time, he and Crowley would find themselves again collaborating on the small, critical tasks of domesticity and thus, somehow, building a life together.

“Hope the kids’ll be alright,” Crowley said, squinting at the horizon. “Hope anyone will be.”

“They will,” Aziraphale said, placing one reassuring hand on Crowley’s still habit-clad shoulder. “You made sure of it.” He didn’t follow up with the question he wanted to ask.

_ Will you? _

“Well,” Crowley said, snapping his fingers to dress himself like a typical human male of the time, “best be off, I suppose.”

“Yes, best.”

“See you next time, then.” Crowley started walking down the pathway, his narrow hips swaying as they always did, no longer hidden under his heavy Abbess’s skirts. Aziraphale watched him go, his familiar shape swallowed by the grey mists of the Irish countryside.

“Pray for us, St. Dymphna,” he whispered, then tugged on his veil and began his own long walk.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from Proverbs 23:10: _Do not move an ancient boundary stone or encroach on the fields of the fatherless._
> 
> There are numerous historical inaccuracies - I did my best to balance the reality of convent life in the 1700s and the needs of the story. I did play fast and loose with some of the vocabulary words to keep things flowing. 
> 
> This fic in no way intends to make light of the suffering and human rights abuses that took place in Magdalene laundries and other Catholic institutions throughout Irish history.


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